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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24229240">the way that you speak with me gives me a</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julx3tte/pseuds/Julx3tte'>Julx3tte</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>you can sail on thin ice long as i can too [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, if it wasn't clear this series is blue lions, non graphic descriptions of sex, non graphic descriptions of war and violence, sylvgrid - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 18:35:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,334</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24229240</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julx3tte/pseuds/Julx3tte</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>after a battle, the dead deserve their burial, and ingrid wrestles with how much things have changed since garreg mach. angst, the brutality of war, and the comfort of home.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>you can sail on thin ice long as i can too [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1747528</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the way that you speak with me gives me a</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Ingrid tucked a strand of hair behind her helmet as her pegasus flew lazy circles in the sky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleaning up a battlefield was worse than fighting. The dead deserved their burial, even when all they could spare was a mass grave in the evening before moving to a new camp. She’d never get used to it - even after dozens of battles, each more awful than the last.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sure she could have left and retired back to camp to eat and sleep and plan. As a noble and commander, she had the privilege.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the thought of leaving soldiers to bury their friends and enemies didn’t settle so well in her stomach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was waiting for the graves to be dug first, and mentally reviewing which battalions had taken what parts of the battlefield. It was sickening - but sometimes the injuries to the remains made it obvious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ingrid was glad they didn’t have to face any of their former classmates this time. They’d beaten a splinter force, a defending garrison spent to buy time for the main army to set their defenses. It would only slow them by a few days, but it was enough to evacuate more civilians and set up more defenses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wondered if the professor thought much about what siege meant to the defenders. For half a decade without them, war raged and advanced and cities had been ruined by the brutal defense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Since their return, the war had only turned more brutal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if on cue, a whistle blew somewhere underneath, and three other pegasus from her command flew into formation around Ingrid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ingrid bit her tongue while helping lift several sets of large, rolled cloth spreads from different parts of the field, lowering them into the graves that had just finished being dug. There was no dignified way to bury the dead. Not here, not with their families a continent apart. Not by their killers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time they finished, the air was cold and hurt her cheeks.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>At camp, those that returned early left a vigil. Food and drink by the pound was prepared in a big tent, and the few who’d decided to stay away or had been unable to sleep kept the meat warm and the ale cold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ingrid took the first mug she could, and by the time she’d sat down, Sylvain had found her and brought her a plate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Graciously, the professor had retired. Not that she bore any ill-will towards them. Certainly not, after bringing the Blue Lions together again. But they’d disrupted the war’s hard-earned standstill and now they were all paying the price.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sylvain seemed to notice her mood. He didn’t say much of anything. He was perceptive and compassionate and dammit if she didn’t sometimes wish he’d had those traits as an adolescent. It would have saved many young women from a heartache, and her from headaches upon headaches cleaning up after him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t sleep, Syl?” she asked, picking at her food, eating only the starchy vegetables and the few greens left in the ration.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thought I’d wait for you. War council is later tomorrow, so you can sleep in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span>, not we. Which meant he was going to get up early and do some mourning of his own tomorrow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… thanks. Let me drink the rest of this, and we can…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sylvain shook his head. “Take your time.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes meant it. They warned her to slow down, to breathe. An invitation to take what she needs and to slow down. In less than a week they wouldn’t have time to, and it was already weighing heavy on her. Battles after battles. The life of a knight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You used to be noisier,” she said, poking at the air in front of her with a fork.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m plenty noisy,” he defended.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What I mean is…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know what you mean of course. But you’re the noisy one, ale in one hand, sword in the other. When did you become such a knight?” The way he said </span>
  <em>
    <span>knight</span>
  </em>
  <span> was a mockery of chivalry, and Ingrid was compelled to defend their honor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When did you become such a hen?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excuse you, if you’re going to call me a chicken, at least call me a cock.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ingrid stuck her tongue out at him. “Have to show me you deserve that title first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that so?” Sylvain took the ale from her hand and downed it himself. With that, he led her by the hand, out of the tent and into his bedchambers.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Sylvain’s room was warm and musky. The last wave of soldiers from Galatea had brought candles that reminded Ingrid of home and she’d kept a few in Sylvain’s quarters for nights like this one. She’d never admit it, but it would have been nice to bring him into her room in Castle Galatea. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the bed underneath her, Sylvain let out a tired, ragged groan. He was close - she finally knew his tells well enough - and Ingrid rolled her hips just </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span>, making his fingers press deep into her legs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d learned the move by accident when they were both too drunk to talk about what they needed to do, and she’d kept it in her back pocket. Despite what assumptions she’d had before, Sylvain was an incredibly gentle lover. The first time, he’d talked her through her nerves, making her forget about the vast experience gap between then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Since then, he’d never let her feel like another one of the skirts he’d chased over the years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ing…” He liked to whisper in bed, too. His eyes pleaded for more of her. Ingrid’s finger traced a scar on his chest before using a palm for leverage, giving her hips more space.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wasn’t so close yet, but it didn’t matter. Later, Sylvain would wrap his arms around her, trail kisses down her neck while his hands drew circles wherever she asked. He wasn’t perfect - his hands were calloused and cut, and sometimes they clenched as if he were holding an invisible </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lance of Ruin</span>
  </em>
  <span> and riding out to battle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he was tame and unpretentious and, if she’d thought this about him years ago when they were still students, and when her knightly ambitions finally surpassed her grief for Glen, she’d have had a better reason to get him to stop being such a heartbreaker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though, she doubted the Sylvain of five years ago would have listened or noticed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She dipped her head to kiss underneath his jaw and Sylvain came undone. He whispered her name over and over again, hands pulling her closer to him, their hips closer together, her head up to meet his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their eyes met but they’d never said the word love. It was too soon, there were too many battles to fight, too many more nights to spend not making love yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rolled to her side, letting Sylvain hold her. His breathing began to calm, but he’d noticed her uncharacteristic silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gold for your thoughts?” he asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ingrid sighed. “Would you have believed it back at the monastery if I said this was where we’d be five years from now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She felt Sylvain grin behind her. “That you’d turn down every suitor for five years and throw it away with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was Ingrid’s turn to grin. “Speak for yourself. Word’s going to get back to your father soon you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That I bedded my childhood friend? They’d wonder if it was Felix before thinking it was you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Heh. That you’d finally said something nice to me. They’d probably wonder if it was a proposal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gods no.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry Sylvain, I’ll make sure no one says a thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why does this sound like extortion?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s because it is commander Gautier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And what will your silence cost me, commander Galatea?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ingrid giggled. She wrapped a hand around one of Sylvain’s and kissed it. “One of your knights in my service.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sylvain’s breath on her neck sent a shiver down her spine as he indulged her.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i think i just wrote my first sort of smut woah</p></blockquote></div></div>
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